I talk so much. Like a hyper, over-excited child. Not always, but often. It sweeps over and out of meme like a wave, a swell of uninvited, babbled information, opinion, story, joke. When I found out it was a dyspraxic symptom, it made me feel slightly better, but it's still ... humiliating? Shaming? Something a little sicker feeling than embarrassment, I think. Ugh.
I have a baking marathon to do today, for the school Christmas fair fundraiser. I want to stay in bed and read this great novel by Iain Banks instead - The Steep Approach to Garbadale. It's so well written. Funny, engaging, tender writing. Sometimes a little self-conscious, but that endears me to it all the more. I've spent €50 on ingredients, it's going to be hours of running the oven. Robbing me of my weekend. I feel resentful about it. Childishly, churlishly so. An annual tradition. Other people work harder than I do to organise it, and it's vital if we want the school to be able to keep running the lights and so on. Which is shit. But ... it is what it is. I should be more attractively zen about it.
My Christmas present to myself and my fingernails arrived yesterday. Nail varnish. Special, water based, peelable, gorgeous nail varnish. I will blog about this soon, if you will allow me to. V v exciting.
I am feeling shitty today. I have a headache, I don't know why, and things feel too hard to bear. I want to cry and I feel sorry for myself. Blech. Post-menstrual stress? I don't know, but I don't like it. I don't like myself.